Blessed
by SillySmiley
Summary: Two years after Panem's revolution, Peeta and Katniss are happy together. However, just when they think they can continue to live normally, their peace is disrupted. Set Post-Mockingjay, but Pre-epilogue, this is Katniss and Peeta's life after the revolution. Rated M for fluff.
1. Burns

Burns. As I scrub at the deformed skin they left behind, I am continually reminded of the events leading up to their conception- or, rather, the conception of the scars that were left behind. I no longer have stylists to remove the imperfections of my skin. My body is my own again, to do with what I want.

I think back to a time when a thing called "The Hunger Games" still existed outside the pages of textbooks. Then I was a girl of only sixteen, simple and adorned with other scars I earned from nicks, cuts, and scrapes while hunting with my father or Gale. I never saw the marks as blemishes, but rather as badges. Memories to carry with me. I could never take off those memories like articles of clothing- or so I thought before my stylists buffed and chemically peeled them from my body. I remember that process clearly. Soaking in putrid tubs and suffering the scraping of numerous implements designed to lift the burden of those discolored patches from my flesh. To the Capitol, my adornments were imperfections, and therefore I was stripped of them before being presented to Panem as a pawn in the Capitol's precious Games.

I remember how I felt after being remade to beauty base zero- a state of looking how I would if I were naturally "perfect." Standing in front of a full-length mirror completely naked, I felt as vulnerable as a newborn babe. Like the body I had come to know and recognize as my own was gone, and a smoother, fresher one had taken its place. I was devoid of any body hair, scar, stretch mark, and freckle. Did I even look human anymore?

That question did not haunt me for long. Appearance had never meant much to me. I only ever tied my hair back in its usual braid for the practical purpose of keeping it out of my face. Vanity in District 12 had always been a rarity. It was difficult for me to be vain with only one small, cracked looking glass in my old home in the Seam. That, and my wardrobe consisted of merely a shirt or two, a patched pair of pants, my father's hunting jacket, and a pair of broken-in leather boots. Not the kind of attire the Capitol elitists flaunted down their ridiculous runways.

Now my dazed expression is fixed on the white tile of my shower wall, absorbed in the enigma that was my life before two years ago. _I am Katniss Everdeen. I am twenty-years-old. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped, but I wasn't meant to. I was in the Hunger Games again. I was saved. I fought in Panem's second revolution. My sister died. We won. I was, and still am, the Mockingjay. _

Those truths carry me back to reality, where I stand under shower water that has turned cold. Twisting the faucet knobs off, I towel dry my malformed skin. Over the past two years since those fiery tongues licked my skin, the discolored patches have faded. Though they are still colored lighter than the rest of my olive skin, they blend in more easily. The scarring sheen has reduced to more of a pearly luster. The texture of my skin is another story; it looks like melted wax or folded plastic wrap. All the work my stylists had done did not matter in the end. Beauty base zero is a hundred miles away from me now. There is one change I did keep after my last encounter with those three characters, however, and that is my shaved legs. The soft down of fuzz that grew back in felt prickly and uncomfortable compared to the sensation of sliding my smooth, naked legs across my bed sheets in the days before the hair grew in.

Peeta seemed to like this one modification I kept; I could tell by the way he was more willing to affectionately rest his palm on my knee after it had been freshly shaven as opposed to when a week's worth of stubble sprouted from my skin.

Stepping into my bedroom wrapped in my towel, I rummaged through my wardrobe for an appropriate ensemble. Peeta insisted on taking me out for another date this evening, and it didn't take me long to agree to go with him. Since the day he had broken me out of my depressed stupor when I discovered him planting primrose bushes in my sister's honor, Peeta and I have been closer than ever. To be able to experience normal activities with him was almost foreign. Outside the world of politics and Hunger Games, we didn't have much, so we developed a relationship based on more than a mutual distaste for the old Capitol.

It took me long enough to realize that I had fallen in love with the boy with bread and to recognize my former indecision as foolishness. Gale was vengeful and fiery; I was vengeful and fiery. Together, we would have combusted. The man with ocean blue eyes, who bakes me cheese buns and pulls me out of nightmares, is the only one who can keep me stable.

I decide on a casual jacket layered over a forest green tank top with a pair of jeans. Combing through my wet locks, I tie them back into my usual braid and tug on my old boots. Dates were never an overly-formal occasion for Peeta and me. Conversation never seemed to lag due to our wardrobe choices, so I thought my relaxed look was fine.

Just as I descended the final step to the main floor of my home, a unique knock thumped on my front door in a distinct five-tap rhythm. It was how I knew the baker had arrived to pick me up for our frequent outings. It was also how the baker came to my door at night wanting to share my bed.

Opening the sturdy, oak door, I'm faced with the vision I expected, clad in jeans and a gray t-shirt. I have never seen Peeta donning a pair of shorts since our first Games. He is self conscious of the prosthetic that replaced the bottom half of his leg. Only I get to see the network of metal leg proxy when he readies himself, wearing merely an undergarment and a white undershirt, to climb into bed with me. He unfastens the apparatus from the knotted stump that caps his knee before sliding under the sheets because he is more comfortable sleeping free of the device, I assume.

Scars lace his forearms and their edges peek over the collar of his shirt. Like me, only his face was spared of the flames, miraculously.

"There's my girl," he greets me in that husky tone of his, lassoing my waist in a hug and dipping his lips against mine. I reciprocate his affection and smile up at him. Each time he alludes to his claim over me, my heart feels like it's making a valiant attempt to escape one of Gale's snares as my face bakes in one of Peeta's ovens.

"And here's my man," I respond. "Are you ready to go?" As I ask, I loosen myself from his hold and step outside.

"I'm always ready to spend time with you, Katniss." Peeta hums a chuckle and takes a backward step to give me room for shutting and locking my front door.

Walking with our hands linked together, I inquire about where I am being led. Peeta won't give me a straight answer on where he plans to take me and seems to be shorter on words than usual, his palm more cool than I remember. We pass by his shop, and I marvel at the tiered cakes on display. Such fine work he does. His aesthetic eye is a trait I envy; the best I can draw are haphazard stick figures.

Peeta ended up opening his bakery after saving up the monthly allowances the Captiol sends us. Effective immediately after Paylor took office, former players of The Hunger Games were compensated for their distress by being sent a monthly sum for the rest of their lives. With the first check came a typed apology on heavy paper embossed with the newly-designed Capitol seal. The apology was from Paylor herself, expressing regret for the treatment of Panem's children under Snow's regime.

The checks are enough to sustain my simple living style, but I still hunt on the side. Now that I'm free to hunt as I please, I can sell the fresh game I kill to the butcher or keep the animals for myself to clean, cook, and feast on before selling the pelts. Peeta wanted to pursue his family's baking legacy and decided to open up the bakery as both a tribute to his deceased loved ones and a hobby.

The paved sidewalks we meander down now came from the initiative to clean up the now thirteen districts of Panem and to give them the same luxuries the Capitol's citizens enjoy. It began in District 12 with the construction of a new city square with sturdy buildings lining cement-paved roads. Store fronts have window displays of the products they offer. The incentive to own a small business in District 12 has never been higher, as far as I've known. Though these little shops sustain the modest living of my fellow citizens, our primary industry is still coal. Miners are still bred, but have safer working conditions than they did before the revolution.

"Katniss?" Peeta grabs my attention.

"Yes?"

"What are you thinking about…?" he inquires softly, looking to my hand enveloped in his own.

"Oh… I was just-," I hesitate, gathering my words and recalling what I had just been daydreaming of. "I was just thinking about everything that has changed in only a few years- almost all of it for the better."

Peeta's responding smile is slight, resonating more so in his eyes with their drooped lids than with his mouth. He brings the back of my hand to his lips before circling his arm around me as we walk. To facilitate the position, I in turn wrap my arm around him, my head tucked against his side.

"I would have to agree with you there. Everything seems to have settled in our favor," he comments, continuing our long walk.

Silence hangs between us. We walk on. Farther out of the district center until we are tromping through groves of trees. I worry about Peeta's ability to handle the rougher terrain on an unpredictable limb, but he seems to be handling it well.

"How much longer, Peeta?" I ask, my patience meter edging closer to "Empty."

"Not much. I promise," he assures me, helping me over tree roots and rocks lying in our path. It has come to the point where the trees have thickened into a forest. A handful of minutes later, Peeta slows and releases his hold on me completely. The sound of water surging through the forest accompanies the sweet, melodic sounds of birdsong. Coming up to a denser thicket of bushes and low-hanging tree limbs, he seems to check for a certain spot in the vegetation before parting the branches and gesturing for me to step through. Obliging, I wiggle around him and step into a wonderful oasis.

The rounded clearing, which is about thirty yards wide, consists of a lush carpet of grass interspersed with purple wildflowers and ringed by looming trees. A small lake swells in the half opposite the grassy bed with a small creek leading both into and out of the body, entering and exiting through cracks in the trees. Shafts of white light trickle down through the holes in the leafy canopy of tree branches. Shallow burrows dot the grass here and there where mother rabbits rear their young for the first weeks of life. The air hangs with the same dense, sweet smell that occurs after a fresh rain shower. Just next to the water's edge is a checkered, square blanket topped by a woven basket.

Peeta steps through the opening after me and steers me over to the blanket by taking my hand gently into his shivering palm.

"Oh, Peeta…," I sigh with a smile as I sit down on the checkered fabric.

"Was this worth the wait?" he questions quizzically, sitting down slowly and deliberately. He has to physically pick up his prosthetic with his hands to move it in the specific position of sitting down. His hands, rarely idle, go to work emptying the contents of the picnic basket.

"Certainly," I reply. Peeta sets out two plates and a pair of twinkling cut glasses. He fills them up with a meal of lamb and plumb stew over a bed of white rice. A side salad accompanies this dish in separate individual-portion bowls, and the glasses are filled with sparkling grapefruit juice. I haven't eaten lamb plumb stew in ages. It has been my favorite dish since sampling it before my first Games.

"I remembered how much you liked the stew we ate in the Capitol, and I thought… well, I tried making it myself. It took me a few tries, but I think I got the balance of flavors just right. I'm saving dessert for later." He winked and patted the basket that still held some sweet thing for us after our meal was through.

"Thank you for this… I-… This is wonderful. I can't believe you remembered how much I liked this stew." I couldn't wipe the smile from my face. The thought he put into this date warmed my soul. All my favorite things are gathered together around me: my favorite element, the forest; my favorite meal, lamb and plumb stew; and, of course, my dear Peeta.

Leaning carefully across the spread, I give him an affectionate kiss before diving into my meal. It tastes phenomenal- even better than the Capitol's recipe.

The rays of light filtering through the trees transform to Peeta's favorite color: sunset orange. I make light conversation with him, but every time I speak, I have to break him out of a trance he has fixed upon his plate. He apologizes, and we continue talking. I notice that he takes very few bites, and spends most of the time pushing the rice grains and gravy around his plate to create different pictures in his food.

"Peeta, is something wrong? Are you feeling okay?" I finally ask. "Are you feeling one of your attacks coming on…?" This question is more hushed, and I extend my hand to touch the back of his.

He looks up at me, a crooked smiling turning up the right corner of his closed mouth. His eyes are alight, but with the tentativeness of a doe residing behind the glossy blue.

"Those are loaded questions for me right now, Katniss…," he begins with a shaky sigh. "But I'll feel better once I get something off my chest."

This throws me off. I'm conflicted with the weariness I feel; I instinctively believe I shouldn't be as weary of his next words as I am. I should trust him. He has never done anything to betray my trust so far in our comfortable relationship.

Peeta sets aside our dinnerware and shifts closer to me, his folded knees against mine. He encases my hands in his quivering palms and breathes in deeply. His eyes flick up to meet mine levelly.

"Katniss… I have found you the most beautiful girl in all of Panem since I first saw you in grade school. Back then I was just a husky kid who was oblivious to the way of girls. Except, I knew you were something special. I couldn't make sense of all the stirrings in me- pushing me to get closer to you, to talk to you, to protect you- until we grew a little older. And even then, I didn't know how to act upon those feelings.

"In a way, The Hunger Games were a blessing, but at the same time a curse. Finally, I had an excuse to approach you, but in the end, either one or both of us wouldn't make it back to District 12 alive. I felt helpless and that maybe even pursuing a relationship with you would be more torturous for me if you died. But I reasoned with myself that I could never regret forming a bond with the beauty from the Seam.

"When you chose me over Gale after the revolution ended, I rejoiced. Finally, I had won you over. I never doubted that you cared about me, and I understood your confliction. I never meant to hold your mixed feelings against you, because Gale was an important part of your life before I was. But still, for you to mirror my feelings was another blessing. And once I got you, I promised myself that I would never let you go- not easily, anyway," he chuckles nervously, rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles now.

"I don't think I would have ever recovered from the tracker jacker venom without your gentle guidance. And I can't thank you enough for that, and for accepting the brief relapses that happen sometimes. I look forward to the few nights I get to spend in your bed, comforting you through nightmares. You have all the qualities that I wish I had or aspire to have. Your level-head keeps me grounded, and your warmth gives me the power to carry on. It feels like I only exist from day-to-day because I know that after we part, it's only a matter of hours before we reunite.

"I love you, Katniss Everdeen, with all my heart. I want you to be in my life forever. I want to wake up and see your face first thing _every_ morning. I want to cherish you and be your protector. You're all I want from this world, and all I will _ever_ want."

Peeta releases one of his hands and dips it into the picnic basket. Pulling out a small, red-velvet covered box, he props the lid open. Set in the crushed cushion of satin is a circular band topped with a pearl and one diamond set on either side of it. The band itself has an intricate shape cut and fused into it just outside the two diamonds. I recognize the pearl as being the same one he presented to me in our second games.

"I hope you don't mind that I kind of took this from you," he indicates the pearl, "But I thought you would understand." He pauses as I marvel the ring, then look to his face with some mixed expression of surprise, elation, and nervousness.

"Katniss… Will you make me the luckiest man in the world and be my wife?"


	2. Vows

One month later, I stand in the only bridal parlor District 12 has ever had. The gowns to choose from are simple and altered to fit the bodies of the brides who will use them next. They are still rented, not sold, to the bride-to-be, a tradition that has not changed; however, the selection is more elegant than the frumpy, shapeless frock the women before me had been married in.

The shop is conveniently located on the rim of the cobblestone square where Peeta and I will exit simultaneously, me from the bridal shop and him from the tuxedo rental on the opposite side of the square. The ceremony will be simple, just as tradition has always held in District 12.

My mother was on the first train to District 12 when I called to inform her of my betrothal to Peeta. It was surprising, since she has been so hesitant on visiting in the years following the overthrow of Snow and Coin's assassination at my hand. Her voice was the most lively I had heard in years, and she promised to help me with the few wedding preparations.

Since the revolution ended, my mother has been busy with constructing hospitals across Panem and training medics in the art of holistic medicine using natural herbs rather than relying on synthesized chemicals. I've kept in close contact with her through phone calls and letters. Prim's death was a blow to us both, but in a way, it brought us closer together. My mother is the only blood relative I have left in this world.

I called Gale and notified him of my engagement the day after Peeta proposed, and he rode in from District 2 to come see the ceremony. He and I mended our relationship after parting on awkward terms. I understand his need to play an active role in our country's history, reforming how the government runs, and he understands my need to be in a stable environment at home. We now exchange casual telephone calls every other week.

The evening Peeta had asked me to marry him, tears welled in my eyes. The ring, so perfect that I knew it was designed by Peeta himself and crafted by the skilled jeweler in the town square, was dazzling. I didn't answer him right away. It had been silly of me to think pursuing a relationship with him would not rise to this point, but old habits die hard, and I was still unsure of my potential to be the wife Peeta deserved or if I even wanted to _be_ a wife. But if there was anyone in this world that I would consider promising my faithfulness to for the rest of my days, it would be him.

He took me in his arms once he saw my inner conflict contort my features. Smoothing his palm down my hair and holding my limp body against his chest, he said just what I needed to hear: "We've come so far, Katniss… If we can survive two rounds of the Hunger Games, relapses into insanity- or nightmares-, a revolution, and countless deaths, don't you think we can survive a normal life? You're the only one in this world that fully understands all that I have been through. Marry me, Katniss…," he pleaded.

The next thing I knew, I was nodding fervently and choking a "yes" into his tear-soaked t-shirt before he slipped the band around my left ring finger. It was so heavy and precious that I almost felt undeserving of wearing it. I couldn't carelessly dirty my hands when skinning an animal any longer; instead I had to take care in keeping my ring in mint condition.

A sheer fabric veil is fastened to the bun knotted at the back of my head. The sheets, dotted with pearls, cascade down my back. Primrose blossoms are pinned in an asymmetrical slant down one side of my bun, holding most of my hair back, and curling tendrils of hair shower down my neck and frame my cheeks. Braids are interwoven through the hairstyle, and I like the stylistically-messy look of it all. My mother did a wonderful job with the design.

My dress is snowy white, mirroring my feminine purity. A chill tip-toes down my spine at the change I will undergo tonight. It's both a thrilling and nerve-wracking thought, but I focus on the task at hand: becoming legally bound to Peeta Mellark for the rest of my life. I'll cross the next bridge once I come to it.

The cut of the gown I rented is simple, and the clerk that helped me in choosing it called it an "A-line." The bodice is fitted with a network of lace canvassing its surface. Sheer sleeves enclose my arms with twinkling pearl and stone beading sewn in to match the intricate beading decorating the bottom quarter of my skirt. The train extends a yard behind me. When I look in the mirror, I couldn't feel any more… _beautiful_. It was never a word I associated with myself, but there is something about a white gown that transforms a girl into a woman. The scars that pattern my skin beneath the sheer sleeves, pinch around my fingers in uneven bundles, and snake around my open chest and neck are not the center of attention today.

"You look stunning…," my mother murmurs in my ear, looking over my shoulder at our reflections in the full-length mirrors standing in the center of the salon. Amongst the blond locks are gray streaks in her hair, pulled back in an elegantly braided design. Her dress is simple with short sleeves and a floral pattern matched with simple white heels.

I can see in her eyes a dominant twinkle of happiness. It is the most joyful I have seen my mother in so long. This was the kind of look she had only before my father died, and finally it reemerged after an eight-year hiatus. I feel like I have my mother back.

She steps away to fetch my simple bundle of assorted flowers tied together with a lilac ribbon. Handing the floral bouquet to me, she announces that the time has come for us to step out of the boutique together.

The sun is blindingly bright, and I visor my face with my free hand. My other hand carries my bouquet, its arm linked around my mother's. The hustle and bustle around the square pauses to witness my and Peeta's appearance. The star-crossed lovers of the 74th and 75th Hunger Games and the faces of Panem's most recent revolution finally get their happily ever after.

I look straight ahead at the tuxedo rental and watch Peeta descend the two cement steps leading down from the front door. He walks with poise, evidence of his prosthetic leg nonexistent. His tux was tailored to match his bulky stature, broad shoulders accentuated by strategically-placed padding. His jacket and slacks are a rich black. The vest he sports is a navy, satin-like material and a black bow tie completes the ensemble at the collar of his white dress shirt. His hair is trimmed short, but just long enough to show the waves in his blond locks. He is very handsome, and in my next step I trip over the low heels I'm wearing. Luckily, my mother is prepared to catch me. I've never worn heels in my life.

I see a loving smile spread on Peeta's face, and his arms open up for me to come crashing into him. Closing in on the last few feet separating Peeta and me, I look to my mother, who nods her approval with a smile. I clop after him as fast as my handicapped feet will take me. Tumbling into him, my momentum rocks us back, but Peeta catches his balance first and then steadies me. He's laughing, kissing the top of my head and pulling me in for a bear hug.

"Hey, isn't that supposed to wait until _after_ you're officially married?" someone questions from behind Peeta in a tone that was not entirely menacing. Peeking over my baker's shoulder, I see Gale walking alongside Delly Cartwright, the pair holding hands in a familiar way. I look to their linked fingers and shoot him a quizzical look before receiving one from him in return.

"Then we better get a move on," I reply, my whit floundering under the weight of my excitement.

I hear another call to my left, and Peeta and I both look in its direction. Stumbling along twenty yards away is Haymitch, clad in a disheveled pair of slacks with a matching jacket and a half un-tucked dress shirt. His limp, ratty hair hangs in the same fashion as usual, and a pink tint on his cheeks signifies his early drinking.

Approaching Peeta and I, he clasps a palm on each of our shoulders and throws us a sarcastic smile- although, as far as I've known him, _all _of his smiles _look_ sarcastic.

"I couldn't miss out on you two getting married, could I? Glad I caught you in time. There was an incident that delayed me a few hours…" At our questioning looks, Haymitch waves us off. "Not to worry. Go on and do your lovebird thing. I won't keep you any more. I'll follow along."

Too eager to be unsettled, our small party walks to the justice building, my mother on my left and Peeta on my right. Gale, Delly, and Haymitch bring up the rear. Delly chatters on effervescently about how perfect the day is for getting married, and today I couldn't help but join in with praising our good fortune.

Once at the building, we ascend the polished steps and enter, people seemingly parting out of respect for our party to pass easily through. We are led to a more private wing of the building and into a judge's office. Peeta and I are seated in leather chairs opposite his desk, and my mother, Gale, Haymich and Delly stand behind us. The judge pulls out the marriage license we applied for one week earlier. He reads us a few short passages that are traditionally spoken at every District 12 wedding ceremony. The passages discuss marriage's sanctity and of remaining faithful to one another for the rest of our days. We are directed to sign our names at the bottom of our license, Peeta first and then me, signing my new legal name: Katniss Mellark. We kiss, solidifying our union to one another with a mutual act of tenderness. Our faces linger closely to each other, our foreheads touching.

"I love you," he whispers to me.

"Love you more," I counter privately, oblivious to the world around me outside of the blue abyss my eyes meet.

Haymich clears his throat, breaking us out of our little exchange.

"I hate to ruin this moment here, but we should get back to Victor's Village before your party does," he announces gruffly and motions for everyone to follow him out of the judge's chamber. I look to Peeta to see if he had any knowledge of this supposed "party" Haymich mentioned, but I find my husband giving me the same puzzled look.

In the past few years, the Victor's Village has felt more like a community than a lonely retreat. Peeta, Haymich, and I still kept our manors, but the remaining nine vacant homes were sold to wealthy collectors wanting to own a piece of history to live in, fill with other precious knick-knacks in their collection, or use as a seasonal escape. More traffic flowed in and out of the road leading to the private, gated neighborhood- just enough for my taste.

Our party traverses the twenty minute walk from the justice building to Victor's Village, and I notice more foot traffic than usual forming a current in the same direction as us. Haymich leads us through the front gates and to his home where people have already begun gathering outside.

When we come into view, the crowd applauds and closes in on Peeta and me. We're paraded with questions and congratulations on our recent nuptial.

The soiree is grand, lanterns hung in trees to bombard the scene with color in every direction one turns. Guests are dressed in the finest clothes they own, and I am pleased to find several familiar faces. Most I recognize as former school mates who socialized with Peeta more than myself during our elementary days, but now I'm beaming with hospitality. It's like an adrenaline rush has come over me, but instead of being fed by a dangerous situation, the rush is fed by the euphoria of wedded bliss.

Peeta and I make our rounds to each guest, thanking them for coming to our reception. We dance with them on a temporary floor of large, polished wood slabs pieced together by professionals in Haymich's backyard. Traditional District 12 dances weave their way onto the floor, smiling guests circling, ladies' skirts brushing, and bare feet freeing them from the confines of pinched toes. Even I trade my heels for a pair of ballerina slippers. But not before Peeta and I take the floor alone.

The timing is perfect, yet again. The sun is just setting, splashing the sky with vibrant hues of pink, purple, and orange, Peeta's favorite. With an endearing, closed-mouth smile stretching his lips, he clasps my hand and leads me to the floor, slow enough that I don't trip on my gown. Once in the middle of the floor, my heart races and my cheeks blaze. Everyone's eyes are on Peeta and me. But, I guess I've been in front of larger crowds.

His right arm circles around my embellished waist, his left hand taking my right and leading me into a waltz of sorts. The steps are more intricate than the usual back-and-forth swaying motion, but they wouldn't last in any of the Capitol's ballroom competitions. Peeta holds me close, inclining his head to press his cheek flush with my own. I feel his lips move against the shell of my ear before I hear his words.

"You look so beautiful…" His whisper tickles. He continues to lead me in the dance, and I follow with surprising grace. It is not any harder than scaling a tree or any other strenuous exercise.

"Thank you," I murmur in return, placing a subtle kiss against on his earlobe. His cheek is smooth from a fresh shaving, his cologne wonderfully intoxicating. "You're something of a spectacle yourself. I don't think I've seen your eyes any bluer or your smiles so frequent." I hum a laugh. "It's quite attractive."

"Oh?" he questions, a smile creeping into his voice. I feel a little squeeze on my palm before he releases it to hold the small of my back. "I guess I haven't realized it, Mrs. Mellark."

My new title sounds all the sweeter on Peeta's lips. I lean more on him for support, both of my arms braced on his broad shoulders.

"I wish our _whole _families were here…," he comments, his tone taking on a more solemn tone. I had lost my father in a coal mining accident eight years ago and my sister, Prim, passed away three years ago. At the same time, Peeta lost his mother, father, and brothers in the Capitol's raid on District 12. It was an attempt to blow District 12 off Panem's map just as they had supposedly done to District 13. The revelation that District 13 had never been fully wiped out was only made known to Panem's citizens a few years ago during the Revolution.

"I do, too." My fingers stroke the wavy tufts of hair on the back of his head. I feel his lips press against the corner of my jaw, just behind my ear, trickling tingles down my neck and cheek. "Your family would be so proud of you, Peeta. They raised a wonderful son, who I am so grateful for marrying me." The instinct to comfort kicks in, and I feel the urge to barrage him with consoling kisses. My hands stroke his neck and back in rhythmic motions. I wish we were in bed, curled against each other protectively, instead of the center of attention for two hundred or so guests. I want to expunge every ounce of grief from his soul.

"Real or not Real: Today is the best day of our lives," I murmur privately to my husband.

"Real," he murmurs back through a tilted smile.

The dance spins to an end as does the reception. Guests trickle away to tend to their own lives in their own homes. Gale has taken up lodging for the night at an inn in town, and though I offer to house my mother for the nights she plans to stay in District 12, she insists on staying at a hotel as well. She claims it would be best for Peeta and I to be left alone for a while, which makes my stomach somersault with nerves.

As the last of our guests leave and hired help tidies up his lawn, Haymich approaches Peeta and I (glued at the hip the entire night), bearing a pair of suitcases. He sets them down before us, and I sneak a glance at the tags tied around the handles. One has my name- my new, married name- on it, and the other has Peeta's.

"So, all of the guests here chipped in to buy you this present." Reaching into his askew coat, a packet of folded papers materializes in his hand from an inner pocket. Handing them to me, I unfold the papers and find four train tickets, two tickets for departing District 12 and two for returning. Paired with the train tickets are confirmation documents for a paid five-night stay at the most lavish resort and spa in District 4. District 4 became a hot spot for vacations in the days after the revolution for its scenic oceans and luxurious shores.

"Here's your luggage. Delly and a few other ladies took the liberty of packing for you, Sweetheart," he directs at me. "And I packed for you. Don't count on this sort of activity from me often," Haymich says to Peeta gruffly.

"Now get going. Your train leaves in an hour." His smile is ironic, and I smile back at him appreciatively.

Peeta and I both give our thanks and say our last goodbyes after grabbing a few necessities from our homes (we have yet to move into one house). We scamper off with our pre-packed luggage, our papers tucked safely into Peeta's coat pocket, donning our tuxedo and white gown. We are the picture of a happy newlywed couple off on a new adventure.


	3. Shells

I haven't traveled outside District 12 in three years. The only reason I have to travel would be to visit my mother or Gale. Those factors were never enough motivation. I rationalized that the two would be too busy with work to set aside time for me. In truth, it was my own apprehension that kept me in District 12's barrier. In my world, the Coal-Mining District is a safe haven- familiar and homey. Radiating out from my home are danger zones: charted, but still unknown, land that could set off an onslaught of fresh nightmares like explosive mines. I was never willing to test my sanity outside of 12.

Peeta is the steel that reinforces my fragile mindset. His presence must have some sort of biological effect on me, perhaps numbing part of my oversensitive psyche or soothing some sort of innate coping mechanism in my brain. Regardless, I feel empowered by his presence to venture out.

Dressed in the same clothes we were married in earlier that day, we board the car. I feel the machine breathe, shivering with excitement to embark on another trip. Because the trip to District 4 is a brief one, we are given a pair of upholstered seats amongst rows of the same cramped seating as opposed to a larger car meant for an extended stay. I remember our first trip to the Capitol in which the whole train was at our disposal: separate dining, sleeping, and lounging cars (amongst others) gliding smoothly along the metal rails.

Our luggage is tucked away in a cubby above our heads. We make a spectacle of ourselves while packing my rented gown into the narrow row and into the even narrower seat. I will return it to the bridal parlor on our return, but I don't want to dwell on returning from our trip before it even starts.

I take the window seat while Peeta takes the chair adjacent to mine on one side and the aisle on the other. A strip of lighting lines the windows down the length of the car. It illuminates my reflection in the glass window to my right, and I fix my gaze on the image. My subtle makeup as lasted, just as the advertisements claimed their products would, and my hair is only slightly askew from all the activity of the evening. Peeta looks in my direction and fixes his eyes on our shared picture. A sheepish smile thins my lips, and I look back to the real Peeta- not just the reflection.

"Admiring yourself?" he questions teasingly.

"Sure I was," I chuckle back to him.

"Good. You should be. You're beautiful," Peeta responds genuinely. I enjoy the way he says "you're beautiful" and not "you _look_ beautiful," as if my beauty is an innate, inescapable thing as opposed to the product of makeup and figure-flattering clothing. Though, I can't help but feel like I'm fishing for complements around him. My husband offers them so readily, and I feel it necessary to do the same for him.

"Well, I wasn't only looking at myself. I was also admiring your handsome features. In fact, I'm doing that right now as I talk to you, too."

Peeta chuckles and shakes his head in that disbelieving way of his. After raising the armrest between us, he shrugs out of his dark tuxedo jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. He unbuttons his sleeve cuffs and rolls the white cotton up to his elbows.

"Getting a little warm…," he explains and pulls me over to his seat. His arms wind around me, and I tuck my head against his chest. Peeta's heart beats strong and healthy, pounding with a youthful vigor against my ear.

"Go ahead and catch up on some sleep. It's pretty late," he tells me. The hour is, indeed, late, and the landscape outside has been saturated with varying hues of navy. The light strip turns off as the train pulls out of the dock and begins a slow trek along the rails. I feel my eyelids weigh with the prospect of sleep, my body fatigued from the incessant mingling with guests. By the time the vessel builds speed, I fall asleep with a vague memory of a whisper in my ear: "You may not sleep much tonight, anyway…"

* * *

Peeta kisses my head and rubs a rough palm down my tuxedo-coat-covered arm. His way of waking me is always tender, just a gentle nudge and continuous flow of whispers to lull me out of unconsciousness. I stir and sit up, drawing out a yawn.

"We're here, Sleeping Beauty," Peeta teases. He stands and blocks the flow of traffic in the aisle, offering a hand to help me out easily. I take the offering readily and assist him with tugging our luggage out of the built in compartments above our seats. I wonder if the women who picked the contents of my leather-bound case remembered every essential for me. I would not describe myself as a high-maintenance woman, but every person has those few items he or she uses daily.

After ambling off the train in single-file fashion, Peeta and I are spat out on the wooden docking platform. The traffic is light, and our train was the last of the evening. The ticket stands are dim under the awning over the windows with curtains pulled down in front reading "CLOSED."

The blanket of darkness overhead is sprinkled with stars, some brighter than others. So far away, but still making an appearance in the ceiling of our little spot in the universe. The air is cooler at night, but still at a bearable 68 degrees Fahrenheit. The landscape outside the train station is ragged, bristly plants jutting from the ground and whistling as their fronds brush together in the subtle breeze. Occasionally a bird cries, shattering the peacefulness of the night like a filled wineglass dropped on kitchen tile, and then the sound disappears just as abruptly as it came. Bugs call to potential mates in that scratchy, rhythmic way. Palm trees are sprinkled around the landscape, bowing toward the ground as if they're longing to chat with a passerby.

Peeta folds back a corner of the tux jacket he gave me to wear and plucks out the packet of papers Haymich had handed us before leaving. He checks the address of our resort and consults a map posted behind a plastic pane on the side of the train station office. I join him, and we both mentally map our route in lieu of scribbling out directions on scratch paper since we don't have a pen. The directions were simple enough to recall through memory, and we commence on our walk to the inn.

Peeta offers to carry both of our luggage bags, and I let him. I carry our papers as consolation.

The atmosphere is a striking difference from the forest I'm accustomed to in District 12; however, the change in scenery is interesting and not entirely unpleasant. I can see why this is a popular tourist area; everywhere I look screams "beach!" Gritty sand is embedded in every noticeable crevice, and I notice as we pass by buildings how the salty air has worn them, chipping paint and rusting metal.

I pull Peeta's tuxedo jacket closer around me more for its comfort and smell than its warmth. My feet throb inside the satin of my slippers, sores biting the back of my heels and pinky toes where the skin was rubbed raw from the high-heeled shoes I wore half the night. I roll a series of cracks out of my neck and continue on.

"I'm really excited about this," I comment, waving a gnat out of my face. Peeta cocks an eyebrow in my direction.

"Excited about what…?" I could swear that a devilish grin underlies the innocent one contorting his features at the moment, or maybe I'm just imagining things. Peeta has never been the kind of person to be overtly lewd, though the prospect of coitus is notorious for bringing out the primal side of the male species.

"Everything," I respond matter-of-factly. "I'm ready for this- to be a normal person." Though, as I say this, flocks of pedestrians migrate toward us with pleas of handshakes, photographs, and autographs. It was a sudden, overwhelming occurrence, like a sudden chill that shivers through one's whole body in awkward spasms. In District 12, Peeta and I are known, but treated as normal citizens. It's better than the sub-human element I resided in when the Seam still existed, and Peeta and I are respected. But we still never receive preferential treatment.

Here in District 4, we are seen as celebrities, apparently. A handful of girls sporting messy, braided hair in my honor show off their locks to me. My abashed smile bubbles up to the surface, and I'm genuinely flattered by the admiration. Peeta grows more embarrassed with each clap on the back he receives or unexpected kisses the girls plant on his cheeks. The kisses don't bother me because I know that Peeta is their storybook hero. They can't see past the blond locks and killer smile like I can. Frankly said, they're in love with the idea of being in love with my husband, and I can't very well be jealous of twelve-year-olds.

Our hands scribble out signatures in a frenzy to keep up with all the calls pulling us in different directions. I understand the crowd's awe, and I'm thankful for the fans; however, I want to continue my private night with my husband. If this wasn't my wedding night, I would be more willing to spend time with these people of all ages and both genders. I must show some tiresome look on my face as my embarrassment wears off because Peeta announces that we have to leave, and he leads me past the flock of tourists and District 4 natives.

"Wow, I didn't realize we still had such an impact on everyone's lives…," he remarks, sticky, sparkling lip gloss piled on his cheeks. He carries our luggage again, one bag in each hand, as we continue on to our resort.

"Neither did I. Looks like I got some competition, too." I chuckle in regard to the artificial red dye stains still on his cheeks. Licking the pad of my thumb, I scrub his flesh free of the gunk.

"Yeah, they're something, but nobody can compare to you, my dear." He turns his head to sweep a kiss over my knuckles. The joints tingle, and I flex my fingers to amplify and simultaneously bend out the tickly feeling.

We amble down our path another three blocks before we see the resort. Buildings thin as we trek toward it, the sound of the ocean amplifying in my ears. The sea breeze is stronger with fewer buildings to obstruct it and being in a closer proximity to the shore. It feels like we're venturing out to a private retreat almost untouched by the fingers of society except for those privileged few. It's not the element I'm used to, but still interesting.

Outside the magnificent structure of the resort are lush grounds. Thick, weed-less grass radiates around the perimeter with blooming bushes in seashell beds lining the cobblestone walkways. With the salty smell, the air is perfumed with coconut (either sunblock or actual coconuts, I can't tell) and flowers spanning the entire spectrum of colors.

A small, ringed court sits just outside the front steps of the resort with a fountain gushing water lit by an invisible bulb changing the colors it casts from magenta to lemon yellow to ocean blue and more. The centerpiece of the fountain is a mermaid, naked from the waist up, pouring a pitcher of water into the large basin below. A dolphin erupts from the cement waves (which melt in with her long hair) behind her, spouting a stream of water from its mouth in a perfect arc.

The resort structure itself is grand, tiers of salmon-colored levels layered in a way that look like off-put Lego blocks. Balconies stand out from each window with well-manicured vines wrapping around the white-washed rails.

Peeta and I walk to the front set of doors, the glass panel set inside them perfectly spotless and the shining, bowed, silver handle completely clean. The doorman is quick to greet us and hold the door open for us to enter easily. His hands bear white gloves and his navy uniform is flawlessly tailored to his body.

I enter first, followed by Peeta, and gawk at the lobby. A sitting parlor is arranged to my left, outside of earshot of the clerks seated behind the front desk. Men and women dressed for dinner relax in the elegantly-upholstered furniture and carry on with lighthearted conversations. The wide, open area to the right of the front desk subdivides behind one wall into a little shop filled with the necessities people forgot to pack, magazines, keepsakes, cigars, wrapped snacks, and even cold cut sandwiches and coffee. Crystal chandeliers illuminate the entire area by evening, and the skylights above must illuminate it by day.

Approaching the front desk, I hold out our paperwork and acquire the aid of a friendly middle-aged man with a pair of round glasses set on the bridge of his nose and a gray-streaked comb-over. His navy vest and pant suit jacket match the color of the doorman's and bear gold cuff links and buttons as accents. His gold nameplate reads "Glaucus."

"Welcome to the Atlantis Resort and Spa. I take it the two of you are newlyweds, huh? What can I help you with today?" he asks in the kindest of tones, even though check in time is about to expire for the night and he has surely had a long day on the job.

"Yes, we were just married today," I answer. "We have reservations here for a week as a wedding gift from our guests who pooled their money together." Handing over our reservation confirmation, I glance to Peeta, who gives me an affirmative nod. He's letting me take the lead on this task.

With the papers laid out before him, the clerk clicks away at the computer sitting on the desk, glancing at the documents now and then to check for information to enter.

"Ah, yes, here we are. We have the two of you booked for a week's stay in the Pearl Suite." He plucks a small, plastic card from a stack inside a pull-out drawer and swipes it through a specialized machine that, I assume, encodes the card with a special number for our room. Repeating the same process for a second card, he tucks both into a small paper envelope with the resorts insignia on it and hands it to me.

"Here are your room keys. Is there anything else I can assist you with at the moment?" he questions.

"Uh, no, I don't think there is…," I glance to Peeta for confirmation, and he nods with a smile, jolly as always. "Oh, could you please tell us where our room is?"

"That won't be necessary. Nereus will carry your luggage and direct you to your room." With the tap of a bell sitting on top of the clerk's desk, a man hustles over to us and takes the two luggage bags from Peeta. He's dressed in the same navy blue attire as the rest of the staff and has the first sproutings of hair on his upper lip. He couldn't be older than fifteen. "Nereus, please take these guests to room 1011, please."

"Yessir!" The eager teenager replies. "Follow me, please!" he directs to Peeta and I and shuffles on at the same rushed pace he approached us with. We follow the boy into an elevator. Another attendant presses our floor number for us after Nereus tells him we're going to the top floor. The ride up is quiet, Peeta and I exchanging private smiles and hooking our pinky fingers together.

As we rise, my ears pop. The speed of our ascent is surprisingly quick, and I assume that is due to not many floors being present in this building. The elevator settles onto a floor and the doors open. Our guide wastes no time in escorting us out into the white tiled hall and to another carousel of elevators. He explains that multiple elevators are used to accommodate the tiered positioning of the structure's layers.

Peeta and I follow after Nereus, exchanging little snickers at his quirkiness, and eventually we ascend enough elevators (three in all) to reach our room. It's a penthouse on the very top floor of the resort, one of only four penthouses in the entire complex. I'm surprised Haymich was able to talk enough people into pitching in enough money for such lavish accommodations for our honeymoon.

At our door, I swipe one of the card keys Glaucus gave us over the door's handle scanner and a green light flashes, signaling our permitted entrance. Nereus opens the door for us and asks where we would like our luggage to be set.

"Oh, just… on the bed is fine," I answer, assuming I'll be able to go through the contents more easily if I could lay them on the bed first. I pull out a small gratuity from an envelope of cash inside Peeta's jacket pocket and hand the bill to Nereus. He thanks us and exits hastily.

"Heh, he was something…," Peeta remarks as he strolls further into our suite.

Now that our bellhop is gone, I can truly appreciate the penthouse. The door opens up into a small, carpeted foyer with a ceiling window and low-lit, cut-crystal chandelier trickling down from a hook like raindrops that have been frozen in time. Another is set over the dining table in the eat-in kitchen. The walls have white crown molding around the very tops and bottoms. Thick ivory carpet covers the floor, which descends two steps into a spacious living area complete with a fireplace, television, glass-top coffee table, and plush, floral furniture. Chic lamps with seashells stacked inside their glass bases are set on the end tables and other shells are scattered over a doily draped over the coffee table top. The walls are painted a powder pink and decorated with antique candelabras, shell-framed mirrors, and other elements to give the room a beachy feel.

A mini bar is set off to the side against one wall, a built-in wooden cabinet set finished with an ivory stain. A clean set of glasses sits in a tray with a cut-glass bottle filled with some honey-colored liquid. The bar is between two doorjambs, which lead into two separate bedrooms, and a main bathroom is along the same wall.

Opposite the wall with this minibar is a kitchen, complete with every appliance, pot, pan, utensil, plate, and imperishable item one could need. We would have to stock up on protein for the week.

The suite seems to radiate from the central living area, one side the entrance, another the mini bar between two bedrooms, another the kitchen. The last side was my favorite, though: outside a set of French doors, curtained with tied-back white sheet drapes, was a balcony overlooking the ocean's lumbering waves.

That I would explore later because now I have other business to take care of.


	4. Lovers

**((A/N Sorry this chapter is substantially longer than the others (Actually, it's, like, double what the other chapters are ^^;.) But I didn't think you all would mind since this is the fluffy chapter ;D))**

I have never before stayed in a hotel room under these conditions. The Seam was always my home; a little mattress piled with ratty blankets always my bed during the nights I didn't sleep under the stars. The only time I had slept somewhere outside a permanent residence in District 12 was during those two rounds of Hunger Games and all the preparation they entailed. Tonight that will change.

I walk to the master bedroom where Nereus had set our luggage on top of the plush, canopy, King-sized bed. The sturdy, wooden frame the box spring and mattress lie on is stained the same smooth ivory as the rest of the wooden furnishings in the suite. The color reminds me of a sweet, white chocolate fondue fountain at one of the banquets I attended in The Capitol years ago. Four thick posts stand at each corner and hold up a sheer net of fabric, which acts as a little ceiling to the bed. The white cloth cascades down from the canopied ceiling, curtaining the head- and baseboard and tied off with strings on the other two sides to allow entry.

There is an entrance to the balcony from the bedroom as well, the salmon-colored curtains tied back to showcase the magnificent view lying just outside the two French doors.

After flicking on the light switch encased by a shelled switch plate just beside the doorjamb, Peeta enters the room after me. He tugs at the knot in his black bow tie, loosening the strip of fabric first before freeing his neck entirely.

"It feels great to finally have that thing off," he comments, regarding the black scrap he tossed onto a polished, vintage dresser.

"I don't think I've met a man who's ever felt comfortable wearing a tie," I comment as I shrug off Peeta's tux jacket and fold it nicely lengthwise. I then drape it over an arm chair situated in one corner of the room.

"I'm going to go clean up in the bathroom. It might take me a while; the stylists at the dress shop had a field day layering me in more and more bridal gear, so don't get worried if I'm in there half the night," I joke, pick up my luggage, and turn for the bathroom.

"Wait," Peeta says, stopping me with my back to the bed and blocking my route to the bathroom with his bulky form. He takes the luggage bag from my hand and sets it on the ground. "First of all, I'll gladly help you with peeling away those layers if you want me to." His tone is light, a genuine smile stretching his lips. "But there's one tradition still left before you change out of your gown; I still need to take off your guarder."

Now that it's brought to my attention, I feel the lacy band circling my left thigh. The tradition Peeta mentions is so archaic. Do grooms still do that for their brides? However, I'm not opposed to him taking it off, and I'm pleased he brought this up in the privacy of our hotel room and not in the public arena where grooms used to perform this tradition on their brides: the reception.

"Okay," I hear myself utter and swallow. His eyes never leave mine as his hands skim down the back of my dress and rest against my thighs. He lifts me effortlessly and sets me down inches away on the bed's edge. Feeling like I would slip off, I scoot back for more sturdy seating and lean back on my palms.

Peeta kneels on the floor in front of me and takes my left foot. While one hand cradles my ankle, he slips the other's index finger inside the edge of my slipper and swoops the shoe off. He tosses it over his shoulder nonchalantly, and I laugh aloud when it smacks the wall. Why the act was so humorous, I am not sure; perhaps it was just a nervous chortle on my part or perhaps I was at the mercy of uncontained, involuntary laughter- all due to the allure of a charming man.

Peeta chuckles at my response, obviously pleased that I found humor in something he intended to be funny. After repeating the same for the other foot, he grasps the hem of my gown's skirt, crinoline layers and all. As he lifts the fabric layers and dips his head underneath, he hums the theme to some shark film produced and forgotten (save for the song) long ago.

"Du-dun… Du-dun… DuDUNduDUNduDUN-!"

"STOP!" I yelp with glee, reaching forward and smacking his shoulder playfully. I feel like such a silly schoolgirl around him. He's one of the few people who's ever given me cause to smile and laugh so freely.

I hear Peeta's muffled chuckles under my skirt. The familiar, soft pressure of his lips skims up my left leg while his hand rhythmically rubs my right calf. His warm breath puffs steadily against my flesh, raising tingling goosebumps. Lips gracing my inner thigh now, an alarm sounds in my brain; it's telling me that this is private territory, a place so pure that a warning siren is sounded to notify me of another's presence there. Such a delicate, tender area of the body. It's both exciting and nerve-wracking to have Peeta's mouth venturing so close to my most intimate place. He is gentle, though, and I feel his teeth latch onto the elastic band of the lace guarder. Tugging it downward, I assist by lifting my thigh for more wiggle room to pull it down my knee and all the way off my leg.

Peeta releases his grip and lets the garment dangle around my ankle, next pulling it off my foot with his hands.

"Now THAT was fun." His face is flustered and tinged crimson. "Well, at least it was for ME…"

"No, no, I'm glad you suggested doing that. I completely forgot about that custom. I, uh, liked it…" Did that sound as perverted as I think it did? Regardless, Peeta throws me an abashed smile and stands upright.

"I'll let you go clean up now. Do what you gotta do." Unrolling his white sleeves from around his elbows, he turns toward his own suitcase and zips it open.

I leave him and, bag in hand, bolt into the bathroom, sliding the pocket door into place behind me. I flick the ceiling light on, a cut glass fixture concealing the bulbs inside, and prop the luggage onto a soft, upholstered bench adding some appeal to a barren inner wall. The room itself is in the same ivory-finish, powder pink walls, salmon-and-seashell accent fashion the rest of the suit is outfitted with. It's spacious, a large Persian rug spanning the majority of the flooring to salvage one's feet from the harsh cool of the white tiles. The marbled counter space is large between complementary his and her sinks. A shell-framed mirror encompasses an eight feet by four feet canvas of space above the counter. The focal point of the room is a Jacuzzi tub positioned in the corner of the room with a frosted-glass, step-in shower next to it.

Unzipping my luggage, I flip the lid open hesitantly. To my relief, all that greets my eyes are normal day clothes: jeans, cotton shorts, t-shirts, and other assorted, girlier articles. I rifle through the neatly-folded stacks and uncover what lies underneath: countless scandalous, lacy garments with enough ribbons, snaps, hosiery, ruffles, and slits to make me embarrassed for the poor souls who had to sew these pieces together.

Covering them again with the every-day clothing, I turn to the sink and brace myself on the ledge. What on Earth was I thinking when I went in here? What was I planning on doing again? I look at myself in the mirror, a frazzled mess of a woman made weak at just the sight of cloth. I'd seen and been through much worse. All I have to do is be myself. I don't have to wear or do anything I'm uncomfortable with.

Noticing an intercom doubling as a radio set in the wall, I turn the device on and navigate through the sea of channels until I find one playing just orchestral music. No words necessary. I can understand the composer's feelings through the music alone without words corrupting my interpretation.

The music is soothing, and I feel comfortable enough to continue on. I start simple and remove my jewelry: bracelets, necklace, and clip-on earrings. Only my engagement ring and wedding band remain, and those I would never take off.

Eighty-four bobby pins later, my hair spills down my back in curled tendrils. I ruffle the locks through my fingers, loosening the strands that cling to my neck and to each other. My dress is next, and I'm quick to realize that the zipper down my back is impossible for me to reach. Shuffling to the door, I knock out of respect for my husband, in case he's still… doing whatever guys do.

"Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you help me with something?"

"Anything. What do you need?"

"I can't unzip my gown…"

I hear the carpet shuffle with his footfalls, growing louder as he comes closer to the door.

"May I open the door?" he questions.

"No. You have to close your eyes first." What am I saying?

"How am I supposed to help you, then?" He laughs.

"Er- I just... don't want you to see me yet. You know without seeing where my back is. Just… feel your way to the zipper. It's by my neck." I hear him chuckle again.

"Okay," he agrees.

I slide the door open part-way, peeking through the little slot. Peeta's there, his vest off and collared shirt unbuttoned. Underneath his muscles fill out a fitted, white tank top. I see his eyes are closed and feel that it's safe to open the door all the way.

"Nice music…," he comments.

"I like it, too."

Taking his hands, I twist around and place them approximately where my dress zipper should be. I let his hands go and feel him fumble with the material until he has a good hold on the tab. He slides it down slowly, either being careful not to snag the fabric or wanting to relish the moment. I can't tell.

Once he reaches the end of the track (at the small of my back), Peeta lets go.

"I think that's it. Need anything else?"

I turn around and find him with his lids still shut.

"No, that's it. Thank you for helping me."

"You're welcome. I'll let you get back to it." He turns around, and I shut the pocket door again.

I stand in front of the mirror and pull my arms out of the dress sleeves easily. Next, I shimmy the garment down my thighs and step out, carefully laying it beside my luggage on the plush bench. I roll my panty hose down from my waist, off each leg, and return it to one of the zippered pockets lining the case. Lastly, I tug the white dress slip over my head, fold it, and lay it on top of the white gown.

One thing that has been bothering me is the makeup caked onto my skin. It's irritating me, especially in the humid climate of District 4. Without looking in the mirror, I approach one of the sinks and wash my face with one of the complimentary, shell-shaped resort soaps already set in a dish on the counter. Towel-drying my face afterward, I take one long look in the mirror, scrutinizing my appearance. Down to just the essentials now, I contemplate what to exchange the strapless, white brazier and cotton bloomers for.

Putting off the decision, I nab a wash cloth, embroidered with the resort's name in gold thread, and run it under warm water. Ringing it out, I wipe the front and back of my neck, temple, belly, thighs, and underarms. At least this will take the past evening's superficial gunk off. It's the most I can do without setting aside the time to shower, and I don't see much use in that right now.

Turning around so I wouldn't have to watch myself do this, I tug my underwear down mid-thigh, and swipe the washcloth down there a couple times to assure total cleanliness. Pulling the bloomers back up, I dispose of the washcloth in a special, labeled hamper the maids take dirty towels from when they come through the rooms.

The nervous jitters have officially arrived. To make sure it isn't just a figment of my imagination, I hold my right hand up to see if it is shaking. Sure enough, it is.

The most skin Peeta's ever seen me bear is what I've worn to bed with him- usually shorts and a tank top. I wasn't trying to look especially appealing to him then, but tonight is when we complete the most anticipated marriage tradition, and that requires a little more (or less, depending on how one looks at it) than a pair of cotton shorts and a ratty top.

I take a second dive into the sea of lingerie stuffed into the bottom of my suitcase. Whoever oversaw this aspect of packing my suitcase must have had a fun time shopping for this many pieces. It's not likely that I'll even wear every single item during the honeymoon.

I stumble across a piece considerably tamer in comparison to some of the leather-bound items inside. Pulling it out, I hold it up by the straps. The matching panties are safety-pinned to one strap. I notice this theme in all the lingerie and assume it is to keep everything matched together.

The top is a flowy, white, baby doll style with two ruffle-lined bands for shoulder straps attached to the separate cups. Light, white, cotton fabric bows outward from the seam just under the bust and wraps around the back. The hem is lined with the same small ruffles as the straps and the panties are embellished with the same simple detail. In the back, a small corset ribbon pattern weaves the two upper sides of the garment together topped by a white bow. Two similar, yet smaller, bows are tied on each side of the panties, the shoelace-style weaving holding the front and back together. Very simple. Very clean. Very pure.

I feel comfortable taking off my current underclothes and donning the mild lingerie, if it could even be classified as more than fancy nightwear. After giving myself a once over in the mirror, I deem myself fit to come out of the bathroom. Turning the radio off, I knock on the door again out of courtesy to Peeta.

"Peeta?" I call from within.

"Yes?"

"Are you… ready?" I hear him laugh.

"I was _born_ ready, Darlin'."

Heat pinches my cheeks, and I gather the courage to slide the door back into its pocket and flick off the bathroom light. I notice Peeta has turned off the light inside the master bedroom, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

In the moment before he turns to face me, he stands before the French doors, gazing out at the rolling surf. The sound of the bathroom door sliding home jars him into peeling his watch away from the beautiful landscape. His blue eyes penetrate the darkness like beams of light, and I'm overcome by their otherworldly magnificence. His expression registers pleasant surprise and a pinch of disbelief. Donning no more than a pair of boxer shorts, Peeta approaches me, takes my hands, and holds them out as if to show me off and get a better look at my body.

"You… are _so_ _beautiful_…" The stress he applied to "so beautiful" made it so the words nearly died on his lips as if his lungs were punctured mid-speech. I think he's expressed this same sentence to me more in the past day than any other day.

Before I can say anything, Peeta sweeps me off my feet and carries me to the bed. His arms hold me with ease, their strength immense and protective. My legs drape over one forearm, my back supported by the other. The sculpt of his chest against my shoulder is not a new sensation entirely, but without a shirt to separate my skin from his, an element of intimacy is added.

Leaning forward, he gently sets me down inside the little enclosure. He steps back, and I'm struck with a pleasant view of his broad physique. Blond curls of hair texture his chest and trail down in a line under his waistband from his belly button. Blotchy, faded scars mar his skin and somehow add to his sex appeal in a way mine never could. He still has his prosthetic on, but I assume he'll take it off later to be more comfortable. His wedding band glints in the soft moonlight, and he emits a small, private smile, just for me.

Suddenly, he turns and walks away to the other side of the room. A question halts on the tip of my tongue when he unlocks and opens one of the French doors leading to the balcony.

"I saw you eyeing the waves and thought you might like to listen to them… It's a luxury we don't get back home," Peeta explains before walking around to his side of the bed. He had set me on the side nearest to the doors, now open to let in the refreshing breeze and the voice of the commanding ocean.

"Good idea. I like listening to the water…," I respond with a genuine smile. As Peeta climbs onto the bed, he lies on his side to face me, and I reciprocate by rolling on my side to face him. Okay… Minimal clothing, check; romantic ambiance, check; both of us in bed, check… Now what?

We're both caught in middle ground- a limbo of sorts. Neither wants to make the other feel uncomfortable or awkward. Our relationship never pushed past kissing and cuddling. Sure, we've slept in the same bed, but never with the intent to do more than sleep. We had set parameters and, without needing to speak of them, felt perfectly comfortable drifting off to sleep tucked against each other for warmth with our clothes still on.

Are all first times this way? Is it okay to not know what to do? Perhaps this is just a sign of our innocence. Considering all the gruesome displays we've seen, a jury would not likely declare us "innocent souls," but concerning intimacy, we are as pure as babes.

Peeta breaks into a crooked, thin-lipped smile and takes the initiative to cross the invisible line dividing our halves of the bed. His fingers skim over my cheek, my ear, and brush back my hair. His palm rests against my ear, thumb stroking my temple, and he gently coaxes my jaw up. My eyes droop and lips purse with the anticipation of a kiss that did not come. Instead, I feel Peeta sweep his lips against mine, mimicking the flit of a butterfly's wing. His lips drop to my chin on a fast track to my neck.

By then he had maneuvered his body so close to mine that I feel compelled to roll onto my back again (my eyes now open), Peeta following closely after by hunching over me predatorily. He breaks his parade of kisses long enough to return his gaze to mine.

"Are you okay with this…?" Concern brims in his eyes.

"Mm-hmm… This is good. I like this. I want this," I respond with an affirmative nod.

Peeta grins at my answer and pecks my forehead with a kiss. I get this feeling that my answers themselves don't elicit his smiles but the way in which I say them does. I can't say I blame him; speaking has never been my strong suit.

His body crouches over mine, thin air space still separating us from full contact, but his knees are braced on either side of my thighs. I'm pinned, but feel Peeta's unspoken promise to stop at any time if I feel uncomfortable. One hand grazes down my side and fumbles with the hem of my baby doll top. While his kisses sprinkle down my neck and sink into the fleshy juncture where it meets my shoulder, I feel his hand tremble as it finally wiggles under my top. It's eager, but hesitant, stopping against the dip of my waist on its ascent.

Meanwhile, my own hands amble up his back, memorizing the dips and lines in his impressive build as if I were just learning brail. My nose and mouth nuzzle his hair while his lips pepper kisses along my collar bones. I feel him gather the courage to slide his hand further up my rib cage, lifting my top with it. His other hand makes a move to assist lifting my top on the other side and he breaks his onslaught of kisses. A question again surfaces in his eyes, and I nod to him, giving him the Ok.

My back arches and I throw my arms over my head as he lifts the garment and tosses it aside onto the floor. Peeta taking my top off feels incredibly different from stripping out of my own clothes. I'm more acutely aware of the feeling of fabric licking my skin and the whoosh of cool air that replaces the body-warmed cloth. A shudder of excitement sprints down my back like an electrical impulse on a wire. It wraps around me and ends in my lower belly, knotting my femininity with arousing heat.

Peeta raises himself high enough to cast his gaze over my nearly bare form. Though I feel vulnerable, I don't feel uncomfortable. He doesn't leer; his look is more out of wonder and curiosity. I assume by this look on his face that he has never seen the female form outside a school textbook, although I wouldn't expect Peeta to have ever had the chance to see a naked female in person. I'm happy to be his first for everything intimate: kisses, embraces, and soon more.

With a tentative hand, he drags the pad of his index finger down from the base of my throat through the hollow between my breasts. He circles it around my left's soft underside before patting the side with all of his fingers to see how it moves. After another gentle smack to see the swell ripple, I emit a squeak of laughter.

"What…?" Peeta asks, alarmed now with wide eyes turned to mine.

"N-Nothing… You're just cute. Take your time," I manage through chortles. I see his cheeks brighten with a tinge of red.

Turning his attention back to my chest, Peeta settles down on his elbows, the top of his head level with my collar. He envelopes each swell into his palm, his hold firm but not painful. The way he maneuvers his hands reminds me of how one would sand a deck; he kneads the mounds together, then apart, and around in circles. Peeta smoothes his fingers around the sides as if he were molding a clay pot and winds his thumbs over my sensitive nipples. This draws out an involuntary squirm from me.

Throughout this, I lay mostly still, allowing Peeta to explore however he needs to. This exploring takes a turn, though, when his lips descend to meet the fleshy swell of my right breast with tender kisses while his hand fondles the left. His mouth opens and sucks and nips with growing passion, teeth raking my supple flesh and his tongue twisting around the tight knob of my nipple. He suckles it like a newborn babe briefly and then turns his attentions elsewhere. Red splotches dot my chest by the time Peeta is ready to pour more kiss marks over my neck and finally meet my lips. Mouth working over mine with a sense of urgency, I twist my legs for some form of relief whilst still pinned.

I'm allowed another breath of air as his lips descend down my chin, over my Adam's apple, and through the ravine between my breasts. Only, he doesn't stop. He traces my stomach's midline, affectionately nips the skin around my belly button, and ends at my panty line. Spines of exhilaration poke my womanhood in a way I've never felt before. My senses feel like they're on high alert, yet at the same time dulled and only able to focus on my husband.

I look down at him to see his baby blues peeking back up at me. He's unsure, and I can tell. He wants to, but is inexperienced and respects me too much to make me uncomfortable. Though I'm just as inexperienced as he, I still want this. I'm excited to share this beautiful act with my partner.

"Go ahead," I encourage him and apply a loving squeeze to his hands braced around my hips. He nods and lowers his lips again, starting at my left hip and spanning that tender space of flesh to my right hip. My legs squirm again and my toes curl. Hooking his thumbs under the elastic around the leg openings, Peeta tugs the fabric down my thighs. He has to shift lower to accommodate tugging my panties all the way off my ankles and depositing them onto the floor.

He next lifts his leg and then his prosthetic to part my legs for him to kneel between. Hands braced on the outside of each kneecap, his palms smooth up and down the length of my outer thighs. He must be memorizing my body the way I was imprinting the shape of his back on my memory just minutes before.

Peeta looks to me with a closed-mouth smile and, I notice something just poking up from his waistband. I'm not ignorant of the male anatomy, but his boxers seem to be protruding more than they should. It hits me that what I'm seeing must be what male arousal looks like. Just then he drops his boxers, slipping his leg and prosthetic out of the garment and tossing it onto the floor.

Like Peeta, I had never seen the other sex's composition outside a school textbook. Though I know the mechanics of sex, I can't believe how something _that size_ could fit inside of me. A little secret about me: I can't even properly wear a tampon during a monthly flow. Even those are too large and uncomfortable for me. And Peeta's lower extremity is certainly larger than a tampon.

I'm fearful now, not of my husband purposefully hurting me, but of the pain of first love in general. I was told this hurts and that I would be left sore for days to come, and subsequent love makings would also be partially painful. I hope it doesn't take long for this to feel purely wonderful without any ache involved.

Upon more examination of Peeta, I see where the line of hair trailing down from his belly button leads to. The outcropping curls grow around his swollen scrotum and rise in thicker tufts just a couple inches above his privacy.

He seems proud and perfectly content with me looking. I sit up for closer examination, Peeta still kneeling between my spread legs. Heat sears my cheeks, and I wonder what he thinks of me being so investigative.

"It's okay to, uh, explore, you know…," he encourages. I look up to see his face turned away, a shy grin stretching his lips and a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Feeling more confident, my first move is to cup his sack in my palm. I see his length twitch in response then resume thumping with his steady pulse. It looks so painful and uncomfortable for him, like his skin everywhere down there is stretched as thin as tissue paper. My other hand's index finger taps the bulbous head experimentally, and I hear Peeta suck in a sharp breath of air. Enjoying that response, I hold it between my index finger and thumb then wrap the rest of my hand around the length below. Dragging my thumb over the tip again, I squeeze gently with both hands and earn a minute rock, courtesy of his hips. Leaning forward just a little, I kiss him with another gentle squeeze, and his answering buck is more animated than the first.

"Oh jeeze, Kat…," he sighs, looking down on me. He grasps both hands and easily pushes me back against the bed with his weight, his fingers laced through mine and pinning my hands on either side of my head to the pillow. I feel Peeta's pulsing member nestled against my lower belly, the rest of his body sandwiched against mine. His lips wage a war with the taught flesh of my neck and jaw.

We're not even experiencing intercourse yet, but I'm in bliss. Some part of my brain recognizes the gentle lapping of waves just outside the open door. Nobody would be able to see us cavorting like this; our suite overlooks nothing but sand and water. With my hands and body trapped, I can't do anything but enjoy the attention Peeta feeds my body.

He scrubs his length back and forth over my lower belly, snagging the skin just over that magical place nestled at the front of my lower privacy. Releasing my hands, he tugs the neatly-made bed covers we lie on down. I arch my back as much as I can and lift my hips into him to grant him room to yank them down. Consequently, the friction my maneuver offers to my feminine folds is exquisite- so much that it causes my eyelids flutter.

Before Peeta can fully settle himself over me again, I stop him.

"Would it be more comfortable for you to take your prosthetic off?"

He glances in the direction of his artificial limb, then back to me with a grateful smile.

"Good thinking, Darlin'." Twisting around, still between my legs with his back to me, Peeta pulls apart the snaps and ties that hold his lower leg prosthetic to his thigh. I can see around him how the knotted stump where his limb ends is more severely scarred than the rest of his body. It shines unnaturally, standing out from the rest of his skin. I'm also offered a nice view of his back, its frame pure bulk and strength. He's not sculpted in the way lean body builders or Capitol steroid buffs are; he has fatty cushion to fill him out to a more masculine and alluring degree. Love handles pad his sides, and his upper arms are so large that both of my hands cannot even fit around them.

Before I can appreciate the rest of his form, Peeta twists back around to face me. I stop him from settling between my legs again with my hands on his shoulders.

"What about… protection?" I intone, abashed.

"What do we need protected from?" he questions, innocently ignorant of my meaning.

"Well, um… I thought it would be wise if we took the necessary precautions against the, um, result intercourse was designed for."

Peeta stares blankly at me.

"You're not making this easy on me," I utter through a nervous laugh. "How should I put this? I, uh, don't want to get pr-"

"I know what you're saying, Kat. I'm just messing with you," Peeta interrupts with a devilish grin. "Look, if you're not ready for a baby just yet, I understand. I found some rubbers packed in my suitcase."

I hold my tongue. I want to tell him that I would never, EVER be a suitable mother, but I can't do that now. I can't ruin the mood and advances we've already established with such a serious stance. I'll save that discussion for later.

He reaches over to one of the nightstands sitting on either side of the bed. I hadn't noticed before, but a little travel pouch sits on top, and that is what Peeta made a grab for now. Sticking his hand inside the unzipped bag, he plucks out a square-shaped packet and kneels once again between my legs. Tearing the packet open, he pulls out this latex disc and discards the packaging on the nightstand. Placing it on the tip of his member, he rolls the device down so it fits snuggly over his entire length. There's a layer of viscous sheen around the thing.

"What's that coating on it?" I ask without meaning for the question to escape my head.

"I think it's to make, um… _going in_ easier," he explains and crawls over me again. His movements are slow and deliberate now.

Without fully entrusting his body weight on mine, Peeta hovers with a slice of air between our forms. He's far enough above me so I can see his entire face and the way his strong arms brace himself against the mattress.

"I know this is going to hurt you… Tell me now you're not ready, and I'll stop. But if you want to still do this, I'll go slowly for you. Just tell me what you want," he lulled, brushing my hair back and cradling my cheek. My dear, dear Peeta. I have never met an individual with his caliber of generosity.

"I want to see this through, Peeta. I'll tell you if I need a break, but just… go ahead." There is too much built up tension between my legs to not see our tryst's completion.

His eyes close, as do mine, and he kisses me. His lips are caressing and relaxed without the force of muscle behind them. The motions of our kiss are like lazily-drawn circles in sand, swirling with our tongues and nuzzling with our noses. Little nibbles and licks spike the kiss with surprises and add kindling to the fire raging in the furnace of my lower belly.

My knees rise, and I place my feet flat against the mattress with my inner thighs snug against Peeta's sides. While one of his forearms holds himself up, its hand stroking my hair, his other hand meanders down my body. It passes the invisible barrier at my hips and stroking my most intimate of places. It's thrilling, having never been touched in that area before, and I feel a warm surge leak onto his fingers. However, he doesn't seem to mind.

I sense him simultaneously grab a hold of his rod and feel for where it is supposed to go. Tracing down the chasm between my folds, his head slips into the correct spot and remains there like a key poised to enter a lock.

Wiping his hand on his leg, Peeta touches my hip and makes another slithering pass up my lithe physique, groping my breast briefly along the way. Both hands cradle the back of my head now, drawing my chin up for a teasing kiss as his pelvis rocks forward and unites us for the first time.

At first, I feel this rip, like my skin is forcibly being torn apart by a knife's blade. Next, it warps into a stabbing sensation. Then, it's more like a drill bit the size of a plum with pointed spines has been turned on inside my womanhood.

A cry escapes my lips and I squirm back toward the headboard to release Peeta's erection from me. A throbbing pain replaces him down there. After he sits back, I can see blood spilling onto the fitted sheet.

"Oh God…," I utter, tears brimming my eyes. "I'm sorry," I sob and cover my eyes with my palms before the tears can spill over.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, Darlin'," Peeta soothes, collecting me into his arms and rolling me onto his body. He lies on his back and guides my head into resting against his sternum.

"_I'm_ sorry for putting you through that kind of pain…," he intones and kisses my head. "We don't have to do any more tonight." Though his tone is genuine, I can only imagine how discouraging it is for him. I've left him with his arousal that can't be soothed without help, and if I didn't help him, he would have to care for it on his own. I don't want to just take from Peeta; I want to make him feel good just as he's done wonders for me. But how can I make him feel wonderful when it hurts me so much? Even now as I lie on him, I must be streaking blood over the sheets and his skin. Not only does someone have to wash these linens, Peeta has to wash my blood from him. Although, I can't say that this is the first time I've ever bled on him, it's still greedy of me to keep taking and taking.

"No, I still want to finish. Just-… give me a second to let the pain fade."

"Of course," he obliges and gives me another kiss on the temple.

Rubbing rhythmic circles into my back, I gradually feel the pain below subside. As the last inklings of ache ebb away, I peek my eyes up at Peeta. Without saying a word, I surprise him with a kiss that soon turns urgent. He takes the hint and rolls me again onto my back into our original position: his body nestled between my legs (which are bent at his sides), his member reinvigorated and ready to enter my womanhood (which has ceased bleeding), and his hands drawing my head up for another breathy kiss.

Just before he enters me again, Peeta's left arm moves to wrap around my back, and he sinks to meet contact with my body entirely. His lips drop to the corner of my jaw and amble up to graze the outer shell of my ear. The nibbles tingle, but that's nothing compared to the sensation of penetrating me again to a more full degree. I'm able to handle all of his length slowly entering my sex. His teeth bite my lobe more viciously once he attained full penetration, and I assume this is to relieve some of the pent up passion he's feeling. Peeta immediately kisses the bite he made as a silent apology.

"Tell me when to go, Kat…," he breathes into my ear, eliciting a shutter of delight on my part. "Tell me what you want…," he rasps more seductively and nips my ear again.

This arouses some primal part of my being that only comes out occasionally when I hunt. If he wants to act like an animal now, if he wants me to tell him what I want, if he wants pleasure, by God, he's going to get it.

"I want you to make love to me, damn it," I growl back into his ear with a bite of my own and draw my fingernails up his back. This talking dirty thing doesn't sound as ridiculous as I thought it would. It's more like a carnal side of me had voiced exactly what I want in explicit, yet truthful, terms.

And so our rendezvous finally comes to the most fun part, the main meal, the rising action. His rocks into me are shallow to begin with, not fully going in, not fully pulling out. Their vigor intensifies over time, however, with thrusts filling me to the hilt with his thick erection. I notice a soreness in my womanhood, but ignore it to focus on the complete ecstasy of experiencing him filling me to the brim. Amongst our wandering hands grabbing at each other where we couldn't kiss, I drape a leg around his pelvis to intensify our meetings.

Peeta rasps incoherencies into my skin, amongst them a coherency like "Oh, Baby" slipping out occasionally.

Soon, I can't take the pressure any longer, and with an enthusiastic thrust I'm pushed over the edge and experience my first orgasm. I have never felt such euphoria in my life. In those moments of absolute rapture, I soar into the clouds and feel like I'm dropped into the ocean outside. I clamp Peeta to me and toss my head back, arching my body into his as far as he would give. Liquid heat leaks from my sex and partially drips onto his scrotum.

My lover holds me to him, and I feel his member twitch inside me. A pooling of warmth empties into the sleeve shielding his seed from my womb. He bucks into me again and again, kicking out the last of his liquid and pursuing my aftershocks.

For a while, we lie breathless and silent, tangled in a mess of limbs and sheets. Sweat gleams on my and Peeta's skin, adhering our flesh together. The air smells sour, like our bodily fluids and salty sweat combined. It's wonderful.

Finally, Peeta lifts himself high enough to grace my lips with a lazy kiss. His eyelids droop half shut, and he smiles lazily at me.

"Love you, Kat."

"I love you, too"

He smiles at that, yawns, and lays his head on my bosom, snuggled like a lazy kitty cat. His arms wind around me like a child would wind his arms around a teddy bear as he slept. It takes all of two minutes for me to hear his grizzly bear snores.

Carefully, I reach the rolled-back linens and tug them over our still-tangled bodies, deliberately just covering up to Peeta's shoulders. Though the blankets only go to my ribs, he's all the warmth I'll need that night. Even our lower extremities are still connected. This moment could not be any more perfect.

I decide the French door being left open that night wouldn't do any harm. I'm a light sleeper when it comes to hazards of the night anyway, plus I like hearing the waves crash outside. And those, coupled with Peeta's snores, are the last things I hear before drifting off to sleep myself.


	5. Relapses

It's the first night in a long time that Katniss does not thrash in my arms, waking me with the throes of her violent dream. I know this because I don't surface to consciousness until the sun reaches its fingers through the open balcony door and prods my eyelids.

Her nightmares are some of the products I resent the most from the Hunger Games. Not a day goes by that I don't think of our two turns inside the arena. My body reminds me of the ordeal through scars; bird calls remind me of those we heard in our first forest arena; the ocean crashing outside reminds me of our frantic swim to the cornucopia in our second arena; my relapses remind me of President Snow's inhumane tactics; and Katniss reminds me of the lash shred of hope I clung desperately to when competing for our right to live.

I remember falling asleep with my head pillowed against her lovely bosom, the exertion of intercourse and all the wedding events of the day expending my body's entire supply of energy. But it was well worth it. Seeing her brows knit in concentration, lower lip tremble with anticipation, sweat slither down her temple, chest headily bending into mine for contact… she looked like a goddess. It was all I could do to be gentle with her first love. As desperately as I wanted to snap my pelvis into her and take her senselessly… I respected her body too much to do that.

Through the course of sleep, we must have moved. Both of us took up the entirety of the bed's expanse, our limbs sprawled in search of coolness in the sheets. I slip from the bed about as gracefully as an ox, despite my efforts to keep the bed from jostling Katniss from her pleasant slumber. After securing my prosthetic back on, I slip quietly to the door, shutting it to shield my bride from the World's waking eye. I'm protective, and maybe even greedy, but the World doesn't need to see her at her most vulnerable. It's seen enough of her through two televised massacres.

I turn to look at Kat from my position at the door. The bed linens cocoon her body, yet expose her graceful shoulder blades and elegant neck. She faces my side of the bed while lying on her side. Luckily I haven't roused her with my movements or the sound of the door clicking back into place beside its counterpart. The beginning edges of scars on her skin peep over the hems of the blankets, and it pains me to personally know the misery she suffered receiving those scars. But still, they're beautiful. They're odes to her bravery and every positive quality she possesses.

Noting the uncomfortable stickiness around my, um, _lower extremities_, I blush at my forgetfulness and dispose of the used rubber still desperately hanging on to my organ. Without the meager confines of the soiled material, what was before only a half-hearted boner stood up tall and proud at just about its full potential. I amble to the nightstand with the bag of rubbers inside and debate rolling a fresh one on in anticipation of curing my morning arousal, at Katniss's consent.

If it was up to me, I wouldn't have used one last night. Risking pregnancy isn't as bothersome to me as it seems to be to Katniss because a child with her would be a dream. I'm good at putting buns in ovens – it's what I do for a living – so I feel like it wouldn't take many tries without protection for her to come into the family way. Just to be on the safe side, I decide to roll one on. I tear the package open and roll it carefully over my member.

I attempt to slip back under the covers without waking my bride. Again, she is still on the mattress, rumpled blankets cushioning her form and concealing the exact shape of her lithe, feminine body. Luckily, I have yet to wake her. Kat's hair is tousled, curling in wild, bed-slept locks down her shoulders. Some are splayed over her pillow case, or pushed back from her forehead. It's the carefree, whimsical look of a woman after a thorough lovemaking.

I push my luck by kissing her forehead. It's hard to resist the temptation of ravishing her skin with my mouth every waking moment of the day. And in the peaceful sleep she's experiencing now, my wife is all the more radiant. Each breath she expels is a sigh through her lips, more elegant than a clumsy snore.

She stirs at the kiss and reaches her hand out lazily, groping the covers for me. Once her knuckles knock into my chest, her whole body twists to bask in my body's warmth. It's my turn to be her pillow, so I gingerly guide her head to my shoulder and wrap my arms around her. My hold is secure and solid, yet not constricting. I want to comfort her, not lock her in an uncomfortable, unyielding hold.

A handful of minutes later, just as I begin to nod off again, my bride stretches her back and rubs her eyes. More alert now that I know Kat's awake, I press my lips to her crown and buff circles around her shoulders in slow, massaging strokes, as if I were kneading dough.

Her enigmatic silver eyes peek up at me through wayward locks of hair, and an abashed smile forms on her lips.

"Good morning, my mockingjay," I tease with a grin and another kiss to her crown.

"'Morning, my… loaf of… bread…," she stutters out through a yawn. I can't help but chortle at the awkward sentiment. "Er-… That sounded dumb. I don't have a cute nickname for you…"

"It'll come to you." The ease of talking with Katniss now, after such a big jump our relationship took yesterday, is surprising to me… but maybe it shouldn't be. This morning would only be awkward if we weren't as devoted to one another as we truly are. When I see her, I don't just see her graceful body writhing with pleasure. She's my best friend, the only person in the world I could entrust with every deep, dark secret. What I treasure about Katniss is our close bond, our trust, our respect, and our love for each other. I understand that all other physical affections are extras that I'm grateful for. My mother taught my brothers and me how to treat ladies, and I thank her for the lessons she instilled in us.

I can't see much of Katniss's face with her head tucked against me. This would be fine if only my manhood wasn't so adamant about me pillaging my newlywed wife's body. However, just as the thought crosses my mind to seduce her, I feel the familiar sensation of soft flesh grace my chest. The circles I had been rubbing into Kat's back cease, and I wait for the sensation again. More urgent now, the series of soft kisses slither up to my collar and meet the junction of my neck and shoulder.

Katniss turns to prop herself up on her elbow while her opposite hand braces herself on the other side of my body. From the waist up, her form hunches over me; from the waist-down, her form is still on the mattress, legs sticking together to look almost like a mermaid's tail under the blankets. Those same blankets had fallen back to her waist. Only seeing her back while her lips ravish my shoulder, I take the initiative to scoop my hands under the covers and pull her body over mine, mounting my waist. Her body seems to yield to mine, allowing me to mold her and position her how I liked. That, or she is just easy for me to pick up.

My hands hesitate at her waist, my mind pondering over whether to let Kat take full control, or if I could still touch her the way I wanted to. I had trouble last night debating on what she would and would not like and if it was okay to continue on with what I wanted to do in the name of natural instinct. It had been encouraging to not be stopped once, except to allow her to ease her pain away.

"Please, just touch me, Peeta…," Katniss lulls. Her voice is huskier than I had ever heard it, and I'm again astonished at her keen sense of where my thoughts had wandered.

With her consent, my hands descend on her rump. Absentmindedly, I note how nice her behind is: firm and round. Years of parading around in the woods and climbing trees has a way of toning a girl's body while still preserving her femininity. Among other things I love about her, her looks are killer. Sliding my hands down the backs of her thighs, I note how curvy her figure is. Kat isn't the type to fret over an extremely skinny body. She knows what it's like to starve, and I know she's repulsed by those whose mouths are well-fed, yet destroy themselves for some fad to be sickeningly thin.

My fingers toy with her inner thighs, fingertips brushing the smooth, silken skin just shy of her privacy. Her lips descend on mine just as her hips dip lower to meet my fingers. As our mouths passionately caress, I allow my right middle finger to slip through her slick inner folds from behind as my left hand ascends her abdomen to fondle her breast.

Our tryst is an alternating pattern of giving; I give her my fingers exploring her warm folds, my palm kneading her breast, and my fingers pinching and rolling her nipple; she returns with her fingertips dragging down my chest, descending on my throbbing organ. My right hand pushes up farther between her folds to meet the sensitive bud at the apex of her sex. The instant my fingertip finds it, her hips swivel lower to grind herself into my palm. I get a handful of her natural juices and attempt to grant her what she wants by swirling my fingertip around her clit, pressing into it in different directions and pressures to get a sense of what Katniss enjoys. This is what girls like… I think. The only advice I ever got was from my older brothers, and their sources were questionable.

Abruptly, my girl halts mid-moan. Her body tenses above mine.

"Peeta, what's this…?"

"What's what?"

"This thing on your shoulder… It looks about the size of a watch face." Her fingers descend on a portion of my shoulder just sloping down to my back and an inch shy of my nape. The more her fingers prod and inspect whatever she sees, the more sore and irritated my skin becomes. "I didn't see it there last night."

Katniss springs off the bed and digs around in her luggage bag in the bathroom.

"Are you sure it's not just, I dunno, a zit or something?" Did I really just say "zit" in front of her? Ugh… I relieve myself of the condom I rolled on and toss it into a wastebasket positioned against the wall not far from the bed. This really killed the mood.

"It's definitely _not_ that, Peeta…" I see her pull something out of the bag and only realize it's a mirror when she climbs back onto the mattress and puts it in my hand. "See for yourself," she instructs, pulling the covers up and around herself to keep her decency.

Sitting up, I hold the mirror up and tilt it to see whatever Katniss was making a big deal about. I understand her concern now that I can see for myself. Positioned on the back side of my shoulder is some sort of black, clicking piece of hardware. I experimentally tug at it only to feel that it's _attached_ to me, by some sort of ring of metal teeth. I know that much of what's under my skin's surface from the sharp pain of it digging into more flesh than the wounds it punctured through. It's reminiscent of some sort of ancient medical technology. I think these types of things were used to bleed patients in the hopes that whatever is ailing the patient would be purged from his or her system by drawing the "bad blood." Though, I don't see any blood falling from the site.

"What _is_ this thing…?" I question with a note of hysteria creeping into my tone. "How did it get there?"

"I don't know, Peeta, but look…" Katniss adjusts the mirror in my hand for me to see what she points out on the little hexagonal device implanted on my skin. The one feature that stands out on this contraption is what looks like a little white dot. But when I look closer, I see that it's the likeness of a single, white rose.

"Take it off, Kat," I mutter immediately through clenched teeth. Just the sight of the rose… it ignited something in me. Something uncontrollable. It's the same sensation I get when I relapse, but usually the relapse symptoms are much milder, and Kat can coax me out of them. This... this is overwhelming. I throw the mirror without meaning to, and it shatters on the wall. "NOW, Kat! I c-can't…" It's all I can say.

In front of me, I see her ponder and worry before I crumble to my side. My body hunches in on itself like an unborn child. My hands grip my hair, nearly pulling it out, and my eyes are blinded by a shield of red. When Katniss places her hand on my shoulder to brace me, I swing my arm out and almost connect with her body to push her away. By some miracle, I catch myself before doing something else to her that I would regret.

A sudden, intense rip shreds a two-inch slab of my flesh as Katniss does as I asked.

"Oh, damn!" I hear her swear. What strikes me in my half-ravenous state is the clear panic in her tone. Something is clearly wrong. I feel my warm blood pouring down my back and ruining the bed sheets. Somehow, becoming lightheaded with blood loss eases my oncoming panic attack. The bad news is the attack's symptoms are replaced by a new, icy sensation spreading through every artery, vein, and capillary bed in my body.

"Peeta, stay with me. Stay with me, please…," Katniss chants and bunches up something to press against my back. I can't see anything she does or what is happening around me. I'm foggy and slow, and the icy sensation creeps into my chest. It grips my heart, my lungs, my throat, and I growl and cough.

Katniss's voice drifts around me. Is she on the telephone with someone? I need some more warmth. It's too cold in this room. How is it this cold at the shore? Where are those blankets at? Mom? I thought you were going to get blankets for me, please. Why can't I see you? I can smell your baking. It smells nice. I like it when Katniss brings food home from hunting. She can shoot anything, you know. She's the best. I love her. She smells like… roses. Roses are red-… or are they white? Violets… those… I like making those from fondant to decorate cakes.

Is it time to go to bed already? I thought I just woke up. It's getting so dark outside. Okay. Good night, Katniss. I'm so happy you're here. I'm so happy I married you. I hope you sleep well, too. Love you.


End file.
